


An Important Matter to Discuss

by ikkiM



Series: Battles [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, JB Secret Santa, Mikki Writes Canon, Post-Canon, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:22:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8892352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/pseuds/ikkiM
Summary: Set in the A Battle Won Universe, about five months later. Brienne has something to discuss with Jaime.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dawn@JBOnline](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Dawn%40JBOnline), [bearsofair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearsofair/gifts), [NamelessPasserby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelessPasserby/gifts), [QuizzicalQuinnia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/gifts).



> Running a discussion board is _hard_. Good moderators make all the difference. [Dawn](http://w11.zetaboards.com/Jaime_x_Brienne/profile/4173645/), [Erin](http://w11.zetaboards.com/Jaime_x_Brienne/profile/4208473/) and [NamelessPasserby](http://w11.zetaboards.com/Jaime_x_Brienne/profile/3876987/) have taken over the spoiler hunt for me, getting the news and photos well before the bigger, more well-known sites. You three are amazing. And to [Quinn](http://w11.zetaboards.com/Jaime_x_Brienne/profile/3892320/) who organized the Secret Santa event and is always there to listen to me complain.
> 
> I cannot thank you all enough and I have so little to give. So here is a fic, with a bit of smut, to say thank you and Happy Holidays.

Brienne hesitated outside the door of her husband’s solar. Her husband, Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. She knew that she must speak to him; it could wait no longer. Still, she dreaded the change in her life that this conversation would bring.

She had wed Jaime just six months ago. Raised as a highborn daughter, she’d always known she would not marry for love, but she’d hoped there would be kindness and perhaps, in time, affection from her husband. Those foolish dreams had been crushed with the petals of a rose. When Jaime had first suggested they marry, she thought him mad. They had quarreled but he’d always been better with words. She found herself unable to withstand the onslaught of his arguments of duty and legacy. An heir for Tarth was the least she could do for her father.

Brienne understood the duties of a wife and had fulfilled those duties for Jaime. Not that it had been torture or a chore, as she’d been led to believe by a septa whose harsh words had cut her deeply. Jaime had treated her kindly in the marriage bed, more than kindly. Her face flamed at the thoughts and images that raced through her head. He seemed eager, even delighted, to perform his husbandly obligations. Then again, he’d been so long without a woman that perhaps her ugliness no longer mattered. Still, he had not dishonored her by taking a mistress. There was much that could be laid at the feet of the Kingslayer, but he had sworn himself to her before the Seven and he had honored those oaths.

Brienne wondered if he would still.

She shook the fear from her heart and knocked on the door of his solar. 

“Enter,” she heard him call out.

Her hand trembled slightly as she opened the door. He was standing by the table, reviewing the Westerlands maps with various lords who were certain to be bickering over one boundary or another. Jaime had a gift for mimicry and in their chambers he would often coax laughter from her by aping the various pompous claimants.

She gathered her courage and spoke, “My lord.”

Jaime’s head shot up and his eyes met hers. She never bothered him during the day. They took their meals together and practiced in the yard, but they spent much of their waking hours apart, each attending to the business of their Houses.  He would be surprised to see her here.

“My lady?” he answered, one eyebrow raised.

She inhaled and steadied herself. She would not falter. “I have need of your attention, my lord, to discuss an important matter.”

It was only when Jaime’s eyes darkened and the heat of his gaze seared her that she recognized the words that she had used. It had only been five days ago that he had interrupted her meeting with the shipsmaster saying he required her attention to discuss an important matter. Only there had been no discussion. She had followed him back to their room. Once they reached it, instead of talking, he had reached for her, pressing her against the wall, capturing her mouth with his own. Although it was the middle of the day, she could not refuse him. She would never refuse him.

They had spent the afternoon abed until it was time for supper. Jaime’s eyes had sparkled even as he’d looked at her over plates piled high. She’d blushed like a silly girl. He’d reached for her again that night. Or perhaps she had reached for him.

She’d never thought to enjoy the marriage bed, never thought she should, but Jaime had taken care with her, seeing she reached her pleasure first, teaching her how they could reach it to together. She had become bolder, almost wanton, at night, in the dark. In the daylight though, she had refused to discuss such matters. That was her protection, her armor. No matter how Jaime tried to speak of it, she would not, she _could_ not.

Her face flamed as his eyes moved over her, not just from the heat of his gaze, but from the memory of his whispered words of love that afternoon.

“My lady has need of my attention,” he said slowly, “to discuss an important matter?”

Even if the lords in the room did not understand his tone, she did. She fought off a shiver and straightened her spine. “Yes, my lord, I do. Perhaps once you are finished here,” she nodded to indicate the men in the room, “you might send for me.”

He smiled at her, open and free, his eyes still filled with heat. He shook his head. “I think not, my lady. It is a lord’s duty to always attend the needs of his wife.” He turned to the men and inclined his head, “We shall continue this tomorrow.”

Lord Ruttiger made as if to protest and Jaime quelled him with a look.

She thought then that he would send the men from the room and they could speak here, in the safety of the solar, but Jaime was already walking towards her, reaching out his hand and grabbing hers, pulling her down the hallway and up the stairs to their bedchamber.

The door had just shut behind them when his stump was on her waist, pulling her towards him, his mouth upon her neck, his hand at work unfastening her sword belt, pulling it from her to hang Oathkeeper at its place beside the door.

“Jaime,” she spoke in a voice unlike her own, a voice of a woman being loved.

“Gods, Brienne,” was his answer, his hand now fumbling with the ties of her jerkin as he peppered kisses along her jaw, preparing to take her mouth.

It would be so easy to let him have her, even to take him as she had a few times before, but she could not. Her honor wouldn’t allow it. She pushed at his shoulders and said the words she’d never before spoken in their bedchamber, “No, Jaime, stop.”

He stilled and drew back from her, the heat in his eyes replaced with something near hurt.

“You refuse me?” he asked.

She inhaled, trying to steady herself, knowing the thing between them was fragile and the wrong words would tear it. She had never been good with at explaining herself, but she had always held fast to her honesty. “My lord, I _do_ have an important matter to discuss.”

“I see." He pulled away from her.

Her resolve shook from the loss of the feel of him. Yet, she was Brienne of Tarth. Her spine was forged from Valyrian steel. She could do this, no matter the cost. She cleared her throat. “I wished to tell you that I will be moving into a separate chamber.”

His eyes grew hard and cold. “You are leaving my bed?”

This was wrong. She could feel it. She was better at making her intent known with a sword, but Oathkeeper could not speak for her in this.

“I feel it will be best,” she continued.

“You’re leaving me then?”

There was no mistaking the hurt and anger in his voice.

She shook her head. “I am not. I—”

“What then?” he stepped farther away from her and, on instinct, she reached for him. He stopped as her hand rested just above his stump. She squeezed the scarred flesh hiding beneath the sleeve that she pinned up so carefully each morning. He looked down at her hand.

“My lord,” she coughed, trying to make her words confident and not strangled. “There is to be a child and it seems as such you will no longer need to,” she closed her eyes, “share your bed with me.” She waited then for his response, not able to look at him, unwilling to see if his eyes held relief. She turned back towards the door, away from him, the silence stretching between them until she could bring herself to fill it. “Perhaps I should have told you sooner, but I wished to be sure. The maester confirmed it this morning. He anticipates the child to arrive in six moons, perhaps five and a half.” She reached for Oathkeeper. “As promised, I will provide you an heir.”

She felt him behind her, his hand on her sword, preventing her from strapping it around her thickening waist.

He spoke the words against her neck, “And you no longer wish to share my bed?”

She bowed her head, placing her forehead against the door. “It is not a wish, but more that there is no longer a need.”

She felt his other arm encircle her and his breath lifted the hair on the back of her neck. “You think I no longer need you in my bed?” He replaced Oathkeeper on its place on the wall and moved his hand around to the front of her, tugging at the laces on her gambeson. His hand slipped inside the leather, first cupping her breast through her shirt then trailing down to rest on her rounding belly.

Brienne gasped at the warmth of his touch. “I—I know that you will still have,” she paused, “ _needs_ , but with a child on the way, our duties have changed.”

“Duty,” he spat out the word. “Is that all this is for you, Brienne? _Duty_?” He pressed himself against her back and worked on the lacings of her breeches.

She had tried to deny to herself how she longed for his touch, had begun to crave it. She had ignored all of his attempts to discuss the activities of their bedchamber, had pretended not to hear or understand his innuendos, had looked away from his heated stares. She knew she was not a woman to be desired, _a woman to be loved_. She clung to her duty as a shield for her heart.

His hand slipped beneath her smallclothes to cup her center, one finger stroking her so gently. “Jaime,” she moaned, tilting her head back to rest on his shoulder, her hands now on both of his arms.

In one swift move telling his strength, he spun her to face him, pulling her gambeson from her body, pushing down at her breeches. “Is it not the duty of a wife to please her husband?” he asked just before his lips found their way to the spot on her neck which made her shiver.

She couldn’t think when he touched her like this, her skin alive and warm, need for him tugging at her core. She had no head for his word games and double meanings. She had only the truth that she had been taught as a girl. “Yes,” she answered, hearing the want in her own voice.

He pulled away from her then and stood by the bed, unloosening his own clothes. “Then do your duty, wife, come to bed and please me.”

This was not what she had intended. She had thought to tell him of the child and had hoped he would be pleased. An heir. He had given her so much and she would give this to him, a child to carry on the Lannister line and then another to carry on the Tarth. It was what they had promised when he had asked her to wed.

Marriage had been so much more complicated than she had thought it would be. She could fell ten men in battle, confident in each swing of her sword, but this was a battle fought within herself. She had tried to remember her lessons on being a wife, being a lady, but she nothing had prepared her for this. She had no weapons to use against Jaime. She couldn’t hurt him even if she had. In this battle, she had only the protection of understanding of her obligations. But he was removing that from her as surely as he was removing his clothes.

He held out a hand to her. “Come to me, Brienne. Let us please one another. Is that not the duty of husband to wife as well as wife to husband?”

And with that, her defenses fell. She could not resist him. For all her words of duty and honor and promises of legacy, she loved him.

She left her boots and clothes behind as she walked towards him. She pushed him down naked, half onto the bed. She could please him, and in doing so, please herself. She would let herself have this.

His hand came up to grip her hip, always so warm, each callus and fingertip leaving a trail of heat over her skin. She bent down and kissed him the way that he liked to kiss her, mouth open, tongues intertwining, bodies pressed together. She ran one hand down his arm to his stump and carded the fingers of her other through his hair. He moaned and shuddered beneath her.

His response to her touch always surprised her. Her hands where large and rough, better suited for swordplay than bedplay. Yet when she ran one over his chest, across his stomach and further down, he made his pleasure known. He had asked her to please him and she would. She kissed his neck, sucking and nipping at him as he so often did her, grazing his collarbone with her teeth.

“Gods, Brienne,” he groaned.

She felt powerful and womanly, no matter the insults and the jeers she had endured, the years of questions and jibes about her sex. With Jaime's child growing inside her, there could no longer be any doubt. She kissed his chest, scraping her blunted nails down his ribcage, pressing into the muscle there. He reached up to touch her breasts. But she sat up and pulled slightly away. He opened his eyes and looked at her. His confusion clear.

 “Too tender?” he asked.

She shook her head and kept her eyes locked on his as she rose from the bed and sank down on her knees.

He moved to sit up and Brienne used one of her large hands to push back against his chest. That afternoon just a few days ago, he had done things to her, things of which she had never imagined, things with his _mouth_. She had been confused at first, scandalized once she realized his intent, then overwhelmed with the sensation. She was still a novice at the ways of love, but Jaime had asked her to please him and she intended to try.

She used her hands to spread his legs before placing a kiss on the tip of his cock. His hips jerked and he moaned at the simple touch. She cupped him with one hand and stroked his length with the other.

“Gods fuck, wench, Brienne, what are you doing?” Jaime growled from the bed.

She answered him with a squeeze.  She’d never caressed him before, not like this. She knew her role was to accept his touch and she had. But she wanted to give him more. She ran a fingertip along his length. She was intrigued by the texture of him, velvet yet hard. Again she kissed the tip of him, this time using her tongue.

He moaned and called out her name, there was no mistaking the desire in his voice. She kissed him, again and again, laving him with her tongue, reveling in his words of passion, _his words of love_. With trepidation and desire, she took him inside her mouth. His hips rose from the bed and she fought the instinct of her jaw to tighten. She pulled back for a breath and then took him again, this time a little deeper, noting the curious flavor of him. She sucked at him, trying to draw the pleasure from him as he had drawn it from her.

Jaime shouted her name and sat up, pulling himself from her mouth. His hand was grasping her shoulder, pulling her from the floor and pushing her back onto the bed. He hovered over her, his eyes dark and wanting.

“Gods woman, what you do to me,” he whispered before crashing his mouth against hers.

She felt his hardness pressing against her as his hand skimmed down her side. She realized that she was ready for him, though he had yet to touch her. She shifted beneath him to part her legs urging him to settle between them, urging him to take her. She felt the head of him brush against her and barely recognized the whimper that filled the air as her own. She hooked one leg around his and canted her hips, positioning herself to accept him.

“Please, Jaime,” she moaned.

He pulled back from her and she opened her eyes. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark yet sparkling. She squirmed beneath his gaze.

“Look at you,” he said. “My Maid of Tarth.”

She felt the flush heating her skin. She knew she was acting the wanton. She didn’t need his mockery. “Hardly a maid,” she huffed.

He kissed her softly before propping himself up to watch her face as he entered her. “No,” he whispered, “hardly a maid, but always _mine_.”

She wasn’t sure of the sound that came from her as he filled her; she only knew that he was inside her and she was complete. She wrapped her arms around him as he began to thrust. She felt the rapid beating of his heart against her chest. Her own breath hitched and she spread her thighs further, wanting him closer, deeper.

Jaime often worked to make their bedding last, pushing into her faster, then slower, rotating his hips in circles, drawing out his own pleasure to be sure that she reached hers. Not this time. His thrusts were hard, almost brutal, such that they would hurt a smaller, more delicate woman. But she was Brienne of Tarth, she could take more, she could _give_ more than other women. She clutched his body to hers and matched his rhythm with her hips. It was already building within her and she would reach her peak soon. She dug her fingers into the muscles of his back and squeezed him with her entire body, almost as if she could use her strength to make them one.

He seemed to swell inside her and with a small scream, she shattered in his arms. A quick thrust later and her name was pouring from his lips. He collapsed atop her, sweaty and spent.

A now familiar lethargy filled her, her limbs heavy. Most times, a weariness would overcome her and she would fall asleep before their bodies had even parted. She listened as Jaime’s breathing slowed and steadied, ruffling her hair with each exhale. His lips found her neck and pressed soft kisses into her skin. She drew circles on his back with her fingers and he hummed.

Through the tangle of his hair, she looked up at the ceiling realizing that although her body was relaxed, sleep was not forthcoming. In fact, she felt a strange urge to head down to the practice yard and spar. Jaime, however, seemed to have no inclination to move. She shifted to one side, trying to move him off of her.

“Mmm, sorry, didn’t mean to crush you,” he murmured as he rolled onto his side, slinging his left arm across her chest and trapping both her legs with one of his. He settled against her as if to sleep.

She shifted again, thinking to wriggle from his grasp, but his arm tightened around her, pulling her back. He opened one eye and looked at her. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then focused again on the ceiling. He propped his head up on his stump.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep by now?” he asked, his voice warm and curious.

She bit her lip. “I thought I might go down to the yard, practice a bit.” A thought occurred to her. Would he want her to put away her sword now that she was with child? She could not. She _would_ not.

He splayed his fingers across her stomach. “I have noticed the babe has made you more,” she could hear the laughter in his voice, “vigorous.”

It took a moment for her to process his words. He was right. After a few mornings of inexplicable weariness and two weeks of inability to keep down her breakfast, she had spent more time training. She’d even begun working with a quarterstaff, enjoying the grace and feel of it in her hands. _And Jaime had noticed._

She turned her head to face him. “About the child, you knew?”

She felt his chuckle against her arm. “One look at you naked in the bath and I was able to fit you perfectly in new armor. I know every inch of your body, wench.” He leaned over and kissed her temple.

She narrowed her eyes. “You knew and you said nothing?”

“I was waiting for you to tell me,” he replied, now drawing warm patterns on her stomach with his fingers. “What shall we name her?”

“I have spent weeks, _weeks_ , trying to be sure, trying to find a way to tell you,” she growled and pushed at his hand. “And you already _knew_?”

He reached up to cup her breast, “Are you truly angry with me for knowing your body as well as I know my own?” He brushed his thumb over her nipple and she moaned at the jolt of pleasure from such a simple touch. He kissed her scarred cheek and snuggled against her, pulling her firmly against him. “While my young wife might be ready to take on the world, her old crippled husband needs more time before her can please her again.” He pressed his hip into her flank.

She placed her hand on his forearm, brushing his warm golden skin. “You truly want—Jaime—I mean, even though there is to be a child? You wish for me to remain with you?”

She felt him tensing beside her. “You belong by my side, Brienne, be it in battle or in bed.”

She rolled over to face him, “You’ll not ask that I stop training?”

He reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I don’t think you could ever stop, even if I did.” He looked into her eyes. “And I would never ask. I would never ask you to be anything but who you are.”

“Do you promise?” she whispered.

“On my honor, I swear it as an oath to you,” he answered.

She felt a loosening in her chest, a release of the tightness that had been building since she first missed her moon’s blood.

His face broke into a grin, “You must promise me something as well, wench.”

In that moment, she thought she would promise him the world.

“You must promise to never, ever leave me alone with oafish lords who waste my time with their petty feuds and arguments and you must always feel free to interrupt my councils for discussions of _important matters._ ” He waggled his brow at her and her face flamed. He kissed her nose. “Promise?”

She took comfort in the warmth of his arms, working her hand around to his back, holding him as he held her, her worries of the morning gone. She nodded and then grinned at him. “Not if it’s Lord Vikary though. You have to meet with him all on your own. His breath is foul.”

Jaime laughed. “You saucy wench, abandoning me to the worst smelling lord of the Westerlands. What kind of wife are you?”

Brienne blinked at him and repeated his question, this time in a whisper, “What kind of wife am I?”

He caught her change of mood in an instant. “You are the only wife I would have, Brienne. I would take no other as my lady. You are my life. You are my love.”

With his words, all the foolish dreams of her girlhood rushed back, the stories and songs of maidens and knights, of being the lady of a great house, married to a lord who loved her. Those dreams hadn’t died with the cruel words of a septa, but instead had been locked away, now freed by the most handsome knight in Westeros and the most honorable lord too, despite the claims against him.

“Jaime,” she whispered, then made her voice strong and clear, “I love you.”

He pulled her even closer and pressed his forehead against hers. “Good,” he answered then shifted his hips against hers, letting her feel him hardening against her. “Now I believe we have an important matter to discuss.”

 


End file.
